


Scattered Holo

by Shirohime



Category: Abrahamic Religions, Original Work
Genre: Angels, Children, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Modern Era, Storytelling, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 18:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20278063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirohime/pseuds/Shirohime
Summary: I like to believe angels exist. And that they live among us even if we can't see them.Also I have a strong belief that angels are incapable of hate and a horrible way to solve issues. Also who doesn't want to believe there is more than just us out there?I don't even know. This includes Michael opening an old wound.





	Scattered Holo

Angels walk among us, they say. There's determination and faith in their voices when they speak, eyes gleaming with certainty, yet none of them has ever glimpsed any of the divine that lingers.  
They are blind like moles, pitiful if one thinks about it too long.  
But they are not wrong.  
Angels walk among us.  
But so do demons.

Sometimes they meet. More often than one would think.  
Rarely do they realize it themselves, senses dull in comparison to their true forms.  
In an irony of the universe, they'll find each other sputtering laughter at unexpected jokes of the other.  
Never is it war that has them meet these days. Both sides - when they decide to visit us at all - avoid any conflicts.  
They're tired. Time has not been kind to them.  
Gone are the days when humanity bowed to them even when they weren't there. Gone the days where prayers saturated the air, the sheer pressure of it like ambrosia on an angel's skin.  
Gone, as well, are the days where either side had to compete, had the chance to turn humans this way or that.  
They've grown as a race. A lot.  
Not all of them, but enough so that long ago an order rung out, "stay back and watch. Watch and learn. Do not interfere".

Angels are by no means powerless, despite the might of prayers deminishing. They are righteous wrath and coiled energy. Even the weakest of them burn hotter than a thousand suns, all of what they are folded into the tiny bit of existence that is similar enough to a human that it won't annihilate them when they are around.  
Some of them have forgotten how to smile other than in all-knowing sadness.  
All of them are fueled with such calm energy that humans flock around them searching for peace, for sleep and guardianship.  
Even if they can't see angels, they react to their energy. An instinct akin to that of a newborn puppy, blind and deaf and solely focused on survival.  
The Archangels sit in different corners of the world. Dominion's long ago divided and shared between them, they watch over humanity as they always have.  
They've become masters at disguising themselves. So much so, that even other angels do not recognize them unless they have been told.

Raphael, the flowing river, resides in India. Skin a rich brown she guides those that travel, helps them heal both mentally and physically.  
Magnificent teal feathers gently tremble in the winds that breeze through her home, woven into tapestry and hidden in plain sight.  
Every once in a while she calls upon her true self and makes miracles happen. As many as she can allow to happen without being found out, some bigger than others.  
No harm ever comes upon those that come to her with pure intentions.

Gabriel, the messenger, dances across the streets of New York. They're basking in the thrumming chaos of the city, a grin so bright on their face it could power an entire block with electricity.  
They never stay in one place long, ever changing like the weather. Golden, their skin shimmers in the sunlight and any that see them might think them a fool until they catch a glimpse of those aeon old eyes. Knowing more than any mortal, more pain and grief and despair than any of them could ever grasp.  
There is a wisdom around Gabriel that draws in those seeking knowledge and freedom of the soul.  
So they teach them, regardless of gender, race, religion.  
The ever patient teacher of the wandering.  
Those that cross their path, they bless. A small yellow flicker of happiness in a world slowly overcome by melancholy.

Michael, the general, guards from the vastest plains of Siberia.  
Immovable as a rock, he is too vibrant to go unnoticed in the cities. He burns too brightly, too hotly.  
The humans whisper about him, the steady guardian of the world. And some dare to search for him. Dare to leave civilization behind, either because they have nothing to lose or everything to gain.  
He grants shelter to all of those that find him.  
He teaches them patience and to plan five steps ahead of your enemy. He teaches them endurance and physical strength in exchange for nothing but promises of a kinder world.  
The children of those that found him forever visit, bringing their children along for the stories Michael tells them.  
The most powerful of all angels never stops to smile, watching the wonder grow in little kid's faces as they gaze up at him, as he talks and talks of times long gone and tells them to follow their dreams.

It is one such kid that cracks the endless constant. A kid with big brown eyes and a mop of dark hair, that walks inside Michael's house at the hand of its parent.   
The child stares at the Archangel with the same wonder all others do. Mouth a soft "o", it reaches up with both arms, tugging gently at the rough leathers the general of heaven is clad in.   
The angel complies and lifts the child up, greeting the parent politely before offering beverages and preparing to begin telling stories he's told a million times before.   
Nothing strikes as unusual, nothing out of the ordinary enough to spark the angel's wariness.

There is one story Michael has never told.   
A story about the light and the darkness, about love and betrayal, loyalty and rebellion - though both might be the same in some ways.   
He has never told it because it is no happy story.   
It is his one regret, his biggest sin.   
For as much he teaches of brotherhood and family, unconditional love and understanding, he hasn't heeded those words in his earlier life.   
Has betrayed the only one he ever truly loved.

Yet it takes only one look at the child and Michael yields.   
Sits down on the ground and let's the words spill over, his fiery temper flaring hot and beautiful after millenia of laying dormant.

The story of how the brightest angel fell from grace. How the purest of white feathers tainted the clouds with darkness. A story of two brothers torn apart forever.   
"The Morningstar" they called him. The most vibrant of them. The purest of them all.   
Exiled for wanting freedom of choice, for disobeying the One.

Michael chose Siberia because it so painfully reminded him of Lucifer in so many ways.   
Unyielding, beautiful in its brutal harshness and so so cold it could burn you.   
Michael, the quick tempered fire where Lucifer was calculating ice.

Pain drenches the general's words as he confesses his innermost thoughts to the child in front of him.   
It watches him, head tilted, listening.

Michael tells of conflict inside of him, so ancient he cannot find a memory where he is without it. Of the love that all angels experience so fiercely that acting against it feels like a sin in itself.   
He weaves the story into the physical plain, lost within himself.   
He isn't sure he could cope with the child speaking up and interrupting him.   
But it never does.

When he is done, when he is trembling with the reality of what he has done once again after so many many years, he has trouble finding back to the present.   
The child is watching him still.   
Flames are burning up what is left of the cabin around them. Where the child's parent is, Michael does not know. Does not feel anything, not even the ice biting into his skin.   
All he can do is stare at the child seated opposite of him.   
Unmoving, unwavering.   
The crackling of the fire that the archangel undoubtedly caused himself is the only sound for an eternity.

Then the child blinks, once, twice.  
"If you love him so much, why did you let him go without apologizing?", it asks so innocently.  
There is no fear in its face.

Michael huffs a pained laugh.  
He has no answer for the child.  
The child isn't Lucifer.  
Cannot possibly understand what wars inside him. He doesn't even know why he told this story now, of all times.  
Hasn't seen or felt Lucifer since the fall.  
Bitter resentment burns through his bones, turns into hopeless exhaustion.

"I don't know", the archangel admits at least.  
There is not an ember of rage left within him, no anger or negative emotion towards the child, this one child that listened without once speaking a word. This one child that looks so much like the first human form Lucifer ever took on that it broke something deep inside of Michael.

He must have spaced out into his own thoughts for a while for when he comes back the child is hugging him.  
With all the pure love and well-wishing only a child can possess. Yet there is something in its aura that is so much older, so much.... more than any mortal.   
The words the child whispers into his ear are full of soothing promises and soul shattering honesty.

"It's okay. I'm sure he has forgiven you a long time ago".

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I titled this with a nail polish. Fight me, it's 5am and I'm tired.


End file.
